Last Nocturne

by Marjorie Eccles

  He turned away, his eyes skimming the crowd, and soon found the man he’d come to see, a youngish man in a pearl grey suit, who was moving smoothly from group to group, beckoning for glasses to be filled, pausing to shake an extended hand, kiss a powdered cheek. Edward Ireton, Martagon’s secretary and assistant. He saw that he himself had been seen and recognised. For a moment only, a shade of annoyance passed across Ireton’s face, before he smiled and acknowledged the chief inspector’s presence with a nod. Lamb responded with a sideways movement of his hand to indicate there was no hurry and Ireton motioned to a waiter and directed him towards Lamb before continuing his progress.

  Declining the champagne the waiter offered, Lamb kept his eye on Ireton as he worked his way through the crowd. Smartly dressed, with a high collar and a pearl pin in his cravat, his light brown hair smoothly side-parted, he was discreet, recognising everyone, ready with answers to any questions. He became engaged in earnest conversation with a potential customer, whom he eventually guided towards a particular painting. They stood in front of it for some time, discussing it, then Ireton raised his finger to an assistant who came forward to stick a red circle on it. It was not one of Benton’s, but Ireton and the buyer shook hands, both looking equally satisfied.

  Lamb had met Ireton during previous visits he’d made to the gallery over the robbery there, when thieves had broken in and left with some small watercolours and two bronzes. It had happened when Martagon was abroad, while Ireton had been left in charge; he had been extremely distressed, holding himself personally responsible for what had happened, since his employer had apparently been in the habit of quite confidently leaving him in charge of the gallery when he was absent. The non-recovery of the bronzes by the police had done nothing to soothe his bruised ego. He had apparently been working for Martagon for some twenty years, ever since the Pontifex Gallery had first opened, and during that time he had progressed from competent secretary to knowledgeable assistant; an apt pupil who soaked up like a sponge anything Martagon could teach him. Sometimes he had accompanied his employer when he travelled abroad in search of new acquisitions.

  He was a controlled man who gave little away but Lamb had had the sense that beneath his surface calm, Ireton had been distraught at Martagon’s death. He had gone so far as to admit, in the first hours after the discovery of the body, that his employer had recently not been quite himself, as he had put it, but couldn’t readily say why. Could not, or would not? Lamb had wondered. There had been something slightly evasive in the way he’d refused to say more, but then, Martagon had been a friend as well as an employer and his suicide had possibly caused genuine grief. It was also more than probable he was afraid of the gallery being closed with Martagon dead, and consequently losing his position. Later, he’d clammed up entirely and refused to answer any more questions. With hindsight, Lamb was sorry that he hadn’t pressed him more, when he was at his most vulnerable.

  He wandered round the room until felt a touch on his arm. ‘What do you think of our exhibition?’ It seemed Ireton had momentarily abandoned future prospects. He had to raise his voice to be heard. The noise was deafening.

  ‘Eye catching.’ Lamb was saved from having to display further interest by the approach of a woman with a voice like a parrot who was dangerously waving a black Russian cigarette in an amber holder in one hand while she balanced a drink in her other. ‘Edward! Too, too clever of you to—’ she screeched, the rest of her words lost, then, espying someone else more worthy of her attention, she smiled brilliantly at no one in particular and moved on without waiting for an answer. Another person caught the secretary’s eye, and began to weave his way through the crowd with obvious intent.

  Lamb said, ‘Mr Ireton. I wanted a few words with you, but I’ve obviously chosen the wrong moment. Perhaps tomorrow?’

  Ireton brought his hands together theatrically. ‘Oh, much more convenient, if you could! We’re due to close in fifteen minutes, and after that I have young Mr Martagon, the late owner’s son, waiting in the office to talk business with me. There’s nothing – wrong, I hope?’

  Lamb couldn’t let this opportunity pass. ‘No, but if Mr Martagon is here, and you’re not available just yet, I could kill two birds with one stone, as it were. We were due to meet tomorrow morning, so this could save time for both of us. It shouldn’t take long and I can come back another time to see you when you’re free.’

  ‘Take as long as you wish! I shall be lucky if I get rid of this crowd for another hour – one can’t just shoo away potential clients, after all,’ he said, flashing a smile and fluttering a hand at a passing prospect. ‘He’s waiting in the office. Through that door over there, then the next down the corridor. Give him my apologies and tell him I’ll be with him as soon as possible.’

  As well as the entrance from the corridor, the office had a door to the outside and a bow window with small square panes facing other buildings across a narrow, charming, now dusk-filled alley, whose owners had colour-washed their walls in pastel colours and put tubs of bay trees outside their doors. The thieves had used this as a way of entry and escape, breaking in and overpowering Ireton, leaving him tied up, Lamb recalled. Guy Martagon was standing by the fireplace and when Lamb entered the office, he turned round. His eyebrows rose when he saw who it was. ‘Chief Inspector!’

  It wasn’t yet time for the bracket gas lamps in the alley to be lit, but the room inside had grown shadowy, and Guy reached out and switched on an electric lamp on the large mahogany desk which occupied most of the centre of the room. The office was revealed as comfortable, in a gentleman’s study kind of way, with bookshelves and deep cushioned chairs, soft Persian rugs. It was papered in dark green, against which several heavily gilt-framed pictures glowed. Lamb noted they were traditional, not at all like the modern ones displayed in the gallery. In the light of the lamp, they glowed richly in a room which must always be on the dark side.

  The lamplight also revealed that Martagon was not alone in the room. A woman sat quietly in the shadows, who was introduced to Lamb as a Miss Thurley. A still young woman with lovely eyes. There was a scent of lily-of-the-valley when she moved to take his hand. He deduced, since Martagon was apparently expecting to discuss business with Ireton, she must be in his confidence, and stole a quick look at her left hand, but it was ringless.

  Martagon leant idly against the desk, while Lamb took the seat he was waved to and explained why he was here, and that Ireton was likely to be some time yet. ‘I thought it would save us both time if we could conduct our business now, rather than tomorrow, but if you’d rather wait until then—’ He looked towards Miss Thurley.

  ‘That’s all right, Inspector, you can say what you wish. I have no secrets from Miss Thurley.’ He smiled at the young woman. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Lamb remarked, temporising, ‘The exhibition appears to be going well.’

  ‘The pictures are selling.’

  ‘Especially Theo Benton’s, I noticed. He was a protégé of your father’s, I understand?’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘How well did they know each other – personally, I mean, apart from their business dealings?’

  ‘I didn’t know their acquaintance was anything other than that.’

  ‘They first met on one of your father’s business trips abroad – in Vienna, I understand. Wasn’t that where your father became interested in Benton’s work?’

  ‘Possibly, but I can’t really say. And what has it to do with Benton’s suicide?’

  The two men regarded each other without speaking for a moment.

  ‘Mr Martagon – I have some news which I fear may be distressing. Theo Benton didn’t commit suicide. We believe he was murdered.’

  There was a silence, which had more than shock behind it: apprehension, disbelief? ‘Murdered? I heard he jumped from a window when he was drunk.’

  ‘It’s true that he had a very low alcohol tolerance, but it wasn’t drink that caused him to fall from the windo
w.’ Lamb considered what he’d learnt from the autopsy report and decided it would do no harm to let it be known. ‘The doctors, Mr Martagon, have found that he was poisoned with a strong dose of laudanum and when he became insensible, he was dragged to the window and pushed out.’

  ‘Good God.’

  Decanters stood on a credenza at one side of the room, and after a moment Miss Thurley rose and walked across to it. ‘There seems to be sherry, Inspector, or brandy. Which will you have?’ This time Lamb didn’t refuse what turned out to be a generous measure of sherry. She also poured one out for Martagon without asking him, but not one for herself, before going back to where she had been sitting.

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Chief Inspector? What has all this to do with my father?’

  Lamb had always felt there was something very direct and honest about young Martagon, and that he could face hard facts, and thought the time had at last come to be blunt. ‘Nothing, I sincerely hope. However…’ He took a sip of the pale, very dry fino in his glass before placing it carefully on the desk. ‘Mr Martagon, at the time of your father’s death, since you wouldn’t entertain the idea that he’d taken his own life, and were reluctant to admit the possibility of an accident, you must have faced the only other alternative.’

  Someone opened the door which led into the gallery and let out a blast of sound. The guests seemed in no hurry to depart. Then the door closed, shutting off the noise abruptly. ‘Of course it entered my mind,’ Martagon said stiffly, at last, ‘but who would want to entertain such a thought for long?’ In spite of this, Lamb noticed a mixture of emotions crossing his face, predominantly one that might almost be called relief, possibly because now his deepest fears had been openly expressed. It was precisely the same emotion Lamb had encountered in Joseph Benton. Even murder was more acceptable than self – assassination, it seemed, either deliberately or accidentally. ‘Yes,’ Martagon repeated at last, releasing a sigh, ‘I have thought of it. Though without any obvious motive, that idea seemed equally impossible.’ He focused his attention on the embossed gold tooling of the leather on the desktop, as if it might contain some hitherto concealed secret. ‘Are you saying you know now that’s what happened?’ he asked without looking up.

  ‘Not by any means, not yet. But I think you must be prepared. Theo Benton’s murder also seems absolutely motiveless at the moment. You know, detective work means following even the most unlikely leads. Benton lived for a time in Vienna, and the only thing we have to go on so far is that some event seems to have happened there which affected him deeply. It was there also that he and your father met, and they have both died in as yet unexplained circumstances.’

  Martagon said to the desktop, ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sure your father led an exemplary life – you’ll remember I met him a few times, and I respected what I saw of him – but you’ll also appreciate that in the circumstances we may need to look into more intimate details. I’m sorry, this is bound to be painful.’

  He was indeed genuinely sorry. He liked Martagon, who seemed a chip off the old block. If a young man such as he were to apply for a job as his assistant, Lamb would have had no hesitation in setting him on. But he was still young and also quick, somewhat impulsive, and wouldn’t brook interference in his affairs. He lived in a milieu where people’s private lives were not open to scrutiny. They were not questioned indiscriminately by the police; they had the right connections so that such indignities and difficulties were smoothed over. But Martagon said quietly, when he finally looked up, that he would be more than willing to help, although since he’d been away out of the country for so long he knew little of his father’s private life. They’d exchanged letters, of course, he’d known Eliot had visited Paris and other places in Europe, in particular Vienna, but that was really the extent of it. He came to a halt and then continued, after a long look exchanged with Miss Thurley, ‘I think I must tell you that a situation has arisen…one I’ve been trying to sort out by myself. But this changes everything…’

  There had been letters addressed to his father, he continued after a moment or two, which had turned up after he died, and in them had been mention of some unpleasant happening, a scandal perhaps, which had occurred in Vienna, perhaps while his father was there, maybe the same event Lamb had referred to.

  ‘In what way was your father involved in this affair?’

  ‘I don’t know that he was. I haven’t actually seen the letters myself, so I can’t give you any more precise details, other than that they were apparently from a woman, and unsigned. The references to whatever it was that happened were apparently quite vague, but I’m quite certain my father could never have been involved in anything dishonourable—’

  ‘Apparently from a woman?’

  ‘My mother found them in his desk. And the reason I haven’t seen them is that they’ve been stolen. Someone is demanding money for their return.’

  Lamb regarded him gravely. ‘I think you’d better give me the full story, don’t you?’

  ‘You can leave this with me, Mr Martagon,’ he said when he’d heard the details about the blackmail demands. ‘We’ll make the necessary inquiries.’

  ‘Discreetly, I hope. I’m afraid my mother isn’t going to be very pleased that I’ve breached her confidence – for reasons of her own, she didn’t wish the police to know of it. But I think what you’ve told me about Theo Benton alters the case enough to warrant it. And in any case – well…’

  ‘You may assure Mrs Martagon we will be as discreet as possible, though I think you should tell her that you’ve informed me.’

  ‘Of course, I wouldn’t do otherwise. But don’t do anything until I’ve told her.’

  Lamb was mildly amused to see trepidation on his face. Women are beginning to get the better of us, he thought.

  It was Martagon’s turn to fetch the sherry decanter. He brought it to refill their glasses but Lamb shook his head and Martagon, after a moment, left his own glass empty, too. A furious frown creased his forehead.

  ‘Is there something more you want to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing that has any bearing on your inquiries.’

  Miss Thurley moved slightly in her chair.

  Martagon raked his fingers through his neatly brushed hair. ‘This is the very devil, Inspector.’ Propping himself against the desk once more, folding his arms, he collected himself and told Lamb of the day his sister Dulcie had witnessed the meeting between an unknown woman and his father in St James’s Park.

  ‘And this woman was the writer of the letters?’

  ‘I really have no idea, though she well might have been,’ Guy answered stiffly. ‘They were apparently unsigned. But they were love letters of a sort, and for what it’s worth, Dulcie seemed to think there was something of that nature between the lady and my father when she saw them together.’

  ‘She may be right, probably is. Women – even as young as your sister – seem to have a sixth sense regarding things like that,’ Lamb said, with a smile at Miss Thurley. ‘Mrs Amberley, you said. Mrs Isobel Amberley? That’s not a German name – yet they conversed in German. Was your sister sure of that?’

  ‘She had a German governess at one time. It wasn’t a success, but I’m sure Dulcie picked up enough to recognise that was the language she was hearing.’

  ‘But she didn’t actually hear what was said?’

  ‘No. They spoke together only for a minute or two, I understand. After the woman was introduced to Dulcie, she spoke to her in English.’ He again studied the grain of the leather on the desk, frowning,

  ‘What else, Mr Martagon? There’s more, if I’m not mistaken?’

  Guy hesitated. ‘Only that my father left behind instructions, requesting his solicitor to arrange some kind of financial support for a child.’

  ‘Whose mother you think this Mrs Amberley is?’

  ‘Isn’t that what it looks like? She wasn’t named in the instructions my father left, but I intend to find her, and discover the truth.
Hardisty, our family solicitor, must know where she is, but he’s being stiff-necked about passing on what he considers confidential information. However, I dare say he might look at it differently now, especially if you – if the police – were to put pressure on him.’

  ‘As yet, we’ve no authority to do that. As far as we’re concerned, the verdict still stands that your father died by his own hand, unless or until we have something to prove otherwise, or something turns up that may warrant reopening the case. At the moment we can’t force your Mr Hardisty to divulge something he considers to be confidential. And he may be right – Mr Martagon may have had very good reasons indeed for not wanting the child’s name to be made public.’

  ‘In which case, one would have thought he’d have been more careful not to leave evidence lying around.’

  ‘Perhaps he wouldn’t have done so,’ Lamb said carefully, ‘had he known he was going to die.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment or two, Martagon remained lost in thought. ‘There is someone who may know something about this Viennese affair. A man called Julian Carrington. He’s an old friend of my father’s who lived and worked in Vienna for many years. If he can help in that direction, I’m sure he’d be willing.’

  Lamb rose to go. ‘Thank you for your assistance – and your honesty. I would advise you to keep what I’ve told you to yourself for the moment. Now I’ll leave you to your business. Difficult time for you, I dare say, learning the ropes to run a place like this. Though I must say Mr Ireton seems to do a thorough job. I believe your father thought highly of him.’

  ‘That’s true. You’re mistaken, though, thinking I’m going to take over the gallery. Don’t have the knowledge. Nor the inclination, if we’re being honest,’ Martagon admitted candidly. ‘Edward Ireton’s hoping to buy the place, and it will remain in very capable hands if he does, but he’s having trouble raising the wind. Art galleries are an uncertain investment.’